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Month: August 2016

The other night I went for dinner with a friend I haven’t seen in (well) over twenty-five years. I’ll admit to being a bit, umm, nervous? before going. Completely silly, because I was the one who initiated the plans, but there you have it. What would I say? Talk about? Edit? Would she roll her eyes as I yacked about my non-writing, much as I was determined to not talk about it? Would the evening be a minefield of awkward pauses, as I thought about all. the. things. it would be best not to discuss? Would I recognize her (also silly, I’ve seen the Facebook photos)? As it turns out, I knew it was her from a block away, and she told me I haven’t changed. Aah, the beauty of aging vision. In any case it was a lovely evening and we gabbed for a solid four hours.

In keeping with the week’s theme of living in the past, pretending Nerd Child is not headed to college in three days, we went to New York’s Ren Faire yesterday. Because we are a family of nerds, this is something we’ve always enjoyed, and it’s been several years since all five of us were able to attend together. Who am I kidding, I love this freaking event, I don’t go “for the kids” and if I had the money I’d go every year–several times. Though not one of those who go and camp for the season. Mostly because

Privy my left foot, I know a port-a-potty when I smell one.

Why do I love this bit of nonsense? It doesn’t make sense, I couldn’t even read historical romance (when I read romance) because I couldn’t get past thinking about things like lice and scabies and body odor and the lack of indoor plumbing in days of yore. Seriously, imagine what that knight smelled like when he removed his armor. I’m thinking weeping, festering body sores.

Still, it’s a romanticized era, with heroes and fantasy blended together (because so much fantasy is set in a fictionalized medieval-like setting), fancy feathers and dresses wrapped in great gusts of dust and mead.

It’s true, the fantasy aspect in these fairs is stretched to the limits, and while some of the booths and displays, and actors work hard to achieve authenticity along with comedy, you definitely don’t attend for the historical accuracy.

leather breastplates sold next to

pirate costumes next to

bet you never knew renaissance royalty liked a good pho with their turkey legs

camel rides. They gave every camel a break after each ride around the ring. This guy was having the best time playing with his hay.

I need a dragon. To keep my unicorn company, of course.

All kinds of crazy, fun, and interesting sights.

We spent quite a while watching the glass blowing demonstration.

Pickle vending pirate?

Man Child spent a long time speaking with the blacksmith.

I finally realized what the magic is for me, as I was talking to Man Child. Sure, many of the actors, attendees, and vendors are young and beautiful in the modern way–after all, it’s roughly 600,000° in that heat and it’s a seasonal gig for the majority.

Hell, the women at the booth selling hair ties downwind of the camel ring should be getting hazard pay. Many attendees go in costume, and there’s something about being there that makes people who are otherwise sensible decide that it’s completely appropriate to spend $3-800 on a full costume. That said, everyone is beautiful at the fair. Much like my Brooklyn beach, you can feel it as you walk around–everyone feels beautiful. Young, old, skinny, heavy, doesn’t matter. Full figured women are sensual, middle-aged men who haven’t seen a gym since their high school days in chain mail buying swords; if you haven’t had your wrinkles stapled into your hairline, if life has left you a bit ragged, well, so much the better as you shout, “Huzzah!”

I was going to do a Part II post of our trip to The Met Breuer, but I’m going to do a bit of navel gazing instead. I’ll use a couple of the photos I took for something else that’s been on my mind. Recently I’ve heard and seen quite a few people referencing the concept of “fundamentally good.” As in, human beings are fundamentally good, love conquers all, good always triumphs over evil, etc. On both small (personal) and large (nations, international) scales. I’m…not so sure of that. Not saying human beings are fundamentally evil, or “bad,” but fundamentally flawed? Maybe. Look at a close up of the face from this painting, close to 500 years old:

Do you recognize it? That stare has been all over the news recently. Here. And it’s been here. Without war, here. No stare, but a story that’s yet to end here. I could go on, find 50 more examples without effort, but you get the point. I know I could just as easily find photos of hope and affirmation, and that’s why I don’t believe we’re fundamentally evil. But flawed? Yes.

A few months back, Donald Trump said he could look Syrian children (refugees) in the face and tell them they can’t come here. Because safety. And possibility, and terrorists. I’m certain I’ve read this story before. Oh gee, Trump has no compassion for others but a hyuuuuge sense of otherness. Yawn. Trump, his beliefs, his greed, not the issue. The issue is how many, and how many in positions of power and authority, support him and his ideas. How many voted for him, and will vote for him in November.

Is this current election cycle truly shocking, when we pull our heads out of the sand and look at history, both recent and ancient? Is the photo of 5 year old Omran Daqneesh (the little boy in the first link) truly shocking? Is it shocking to see the headlines about last week’s disastrous flooding in Louisiana are focused on which politicians (and political wannabes) have gone to visit and when, whether or not the displaced are getting first page coverage or third?

It is our human flaws that allow these things to occur. It is our human flaws that make us interesting. It is our human flaws that prompt us to strive for more, for better. But it’s our denial of these fundamental flaws, our insistence on not only closing our eyes but obscuring our vision and differences that keep us stuck, repeating history.

Museum Day, brought to you by Mrs Fringe and Art Child. A great thing about living here in the city is that there’s no pressure when it comes to museums, not a big deal to plan, and no feeling of obligation to see it all in one day. I’ve been intending to get to this exhibit for three months. Now that it ends in a week and a half, I finally made it over there, and want to go again before it’s gone. There is The Met Breuer, a new annex? outpost? of The Met, in the building that used to house the Whitney. Anyway, I loved the idea of this exhibit, unfinished works of art, both intentional and unintentional, and there was a section of works intended to be interactive with the viewer. I’m not sure if this exhibit will be traveling, but if so, go see it!

Yes, for someone who is not a visual artist, I love art, but this whole show spoke to me. Maybe it’s that as both a reader and writer of words, I prefer when stories and characters leave some room for me to think, inject my own imagination. Not in a choose-your-own-adventure sort of way, but in terms of not needing to know every physical detail of characters, not needing (or wanting) every ending to be neatly wrapped in a perfect, glossy ribbon.

Many wonderful quotes scattered throughout, this was one of my favorites.

I, of course, took way too many photos, so even paring down will likely make two posts out of this excursion, so as not to crash everyone’s computers or put my readers into a pixellated stupor. Some of the works gave me a creative charge, exciting, while others had me tearing up.

I loved this idea, and the variety of ways artists captured it.

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I cut off her name, oops. Janine Antoni.

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This next one, on the surface, is the type of painting that might often have me squint and hurry past, because it’s so “in your face” there seems no room to think. But something in this held me for quite a while, really spoke to me, if you want to be frou-frou about it. Actually, my immediate thought was, “oh God, it’s Mrs Fringe!” If, yanno, I was blond, blue eyed, and possessed the ability to pick up a gun.

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Next we came to this series, which is where Art Child wanted to sit and sketch.

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I had no idea why, but honestly, I was ready to sit down and continue thinking about the Lassnig painting. I took a few shorts of the panels, and Art Child asked if I had gotten the face. Again, no clue what she was referring to, it all looked like drips to me, so I handed her the camera.

I’ll be damned. This is why she’s the artist. See the eyes?

While it was very interesting to be able to “see” the process of some of the works and artists, there’s also something…uncomfortably intimate about seeing some of these works in progress, from some of the greatest and most enduring artists. But that is art, no? To make you uncomfortable enough to think and feel.

This full moon wasn’t last night, but it felt like it should have been.

What is stage fright, anyway?

So last night was that thing. The reading. I spent the day with my brain in the overdrive of heightened anxiety, changed my clothes three times, my shoes four, and slopped half a gallon of product in my hair, in a futile battle with the humidity. I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about how my words would be received, or how I’d sound, because surely I was going to have a stroke before it was my turn.

Husband offered to meet me down there. Down, because the bar couldn’t be further from my apartment and still be in Manhattan. No, thanks. I’m one of those people. When I’m nervous about something, I’m better off alone, because your moral support will likely be met by me biting your head off. Cranky. Bitchy, even. That and the fact that I figured the reason I was doing this was to maybe, hopefully, connect with other writers. I know myself. If Husband was with me, it would be the perfect excuse to not speak to anyone, revert to my teenaged self, sit in back and make jokes about myself. Man Child offered to go down with me. No thanks. Then he offered to just travel down with me. Umm, maybe. No, no, I’m a grown up, I don’t need an escort, I’m fine. Are you sure? Yes, thank you. Are you really sure, because I’m going to start laundry otherwise? Yes yes I’m sure.

Ten minutes before I left, I’m going to call Husband and have him meet me. Oops, look at the time, he’s already on his way home, that wouldn’t be nice. I’m good, I can do this.

Five minutes before I left, ummm, Man Child? I changed my mind. But you can’t stay. He traveled downtown with me, and then encouraged me when I spent ten minutes standing outside, bemoaning the fact that I had remembered my camera but not the battery that would allow it to work.

I really have great kids.

I’ll be honest, this sign in the window is probably what got me through the door. That and Man Child’s gentle shove.

At the entrance to the back room, where the event was being held, the producer was checking tickets. I was nervous about the whole e-ticket thing. My name was already on his list, great. I’m scoping the room behind him, happy to see empty seats in back when he says, “Oh. You’re reading.” Was I supposed to mention that? “Umm, yeah, I guess so.” Damn, I’m smooth.

It’s a funny thing. Once I was in, I felt acutely aware that I have never done this before, but not nervous. Basically I was certain I was going to fuck up, drop my pages, lose my voice, have that stroke, yanno. It wasn’t crowded, there were two featured writers and several open mic-ers. The open mic folks were mostly poets. Excellent, this way I was certain to not fit in. I liked the way it was organized, open mic readings scattered throughout the evening with the featured writers in between. (Featured meaning authors with books recently published/about to be published) I’m not sure what I expected, but it was a lively mix of “straight” poetry, spoken word, an excerpt from a graphic novel, excerpts from a flash essay collection, part of a short. The crowd was mixed in age, sex, and ethnicity, also nice.

There was a microphone! Eek. And others were introduced by the MC with a bit about them. Crap, was I supposed to tell them something other than my name and here’s-my-eight-dollars? Ah well. I considered plugging Mrs Fringe before or after I read, but therewasamicrophone. I just did it. I read the opening few pages to Astonishing (probably about half the first chapter, it’s the one up on the blog here). Everyone was quiet while I read, so either I held their attention, or they were taking the opportunity for a cat nap. Maybe they just couldn’t hear me, I didn’t get too close to that mic. I’m from south Brooklyn ferChristssake, I can be plenty loud.

I met a few people who seemed quite nice. Many of those in the audience and those who went up are apparently regulars, but everyone was welcoming. Not one pointed and snickered, or muttered, “poseur” as I went past. If they did I didn’t hear them. Success.

In any case, I felt like it went well. I was surprised I couldn’t see the audience once I was up there, all I saw was lights, and that made it much easier. More surprising, I didn’t feel intimidated while I was reading, I just…read. Scenarios like this always surprise me, no one talking about the angst and futility of trying to get published, trade or otherwise. It’s as if there’s an assumption that you and everyone else is doing it, you belong there.

Seems peaceful, doesn’t it? Especially before I boot the laptop, read about the day’s atrocities and most current buffoonery of Trump.

Not this morning. Yesterday was long and busy. We’ve reached the portion of the summer where my anxiety begins to rise, knowing before I can weep Nerd Child will be waving goodbye, headed North to school, and I’ll be back to twelve trains a day shuffling Art Child back and forth. Ridiculous, we still have weeks, but there you have it. With Facebook friends all over the country and world, I’m already seeing the obligatory first day of school pics. There should be a way to block those until Labor Day, don’t you think?

With so many guests this summer, I’ve gotten behind on keeping the apartment neat and organized. Small space, lots of people in and out, packing, unpacking, beach bags galore and the general sloth of long hot days. Time to start getting it together, so I’m not in a complete panic in another two weeks.

Too late!

Man Child’s girlfriend, Miss Music, was here last week, came for a week after her band finished its tour. Fun. Except one morning, she was sitting on the couch with Art Child, turned to me and said, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

A mouse.

In my apartment.

IN my apartment.

In MY apartment.

Sweet mother of fuck, nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In my many, many years of NY living, I’ve never had a mouse in my apartment. There was evidence of them in our last apartment before we moved in, so we filled every crack and hole we could find, and then put down glue traps just in case. Big Senile Dog promptly got a glue trap stuck to his nose and each paw. Good times.

I grew up near the water in Brooklyn, huge wharf rats could be seen regularly on the streets. Yucky, but outside. There was also a large population of feral cats, so mice weren’t such a thing, between the cats and the rats I’m guessing mice didn’t have a chance. I see rats all the time on the subway tracks. Again, meh. Part of NY life.

Back to the other morning. We didn’t see anything, but we bought a few traps and put them down, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog only got 3 of them stuck to her, and they were much easier to remove than they had been for the big dog, because she’s used to being held to be groomed, and she’s got long hair. Plus, not as dumb as I’d expect, she steered clear of them afterwards. Zero interest in the mouse itself.

No further mouse sightings, until a couple of nights ago, eating dinner and holy shit! I saw a shadow fly over the living room floor. That was no migraine floater. The plan was to go shopping yesterday to restock on cleaning supplies and toiletries, both for the apartment and for Nerd Child to take to school. Needless to say I picked up more mouse traps.

Got home, tore apart the living room, dining area, and kitchen, filled every hole around every pipe we could find, and laid 16 mouse traps. When I say we, I mean Husband and Nerd Child, while Art Child and I steered clear and washed our hands every time those guys touched another trap. I am not taking any chances. I know, they’re a fact of life in NY, in most places, I guess, hence the city mouse/country mouse stories, but they’ve never been a fact in my personal space and I am not ok with sharing. This apartment is crowded enough, thankyouverymuch. Nerd Child reminded me I’m against the death penalty. Nope, only for two legged creatures. Twitchy four legged ones need to be erased. Period.

You know how high my anxiety levels are now, right? In case I needed a bit more, tonight is that open mic night reading.

So I got up, made coffee, went on the terrace, sat for a bit, and then prepared to sit at my desk. One of the glue traps under the radiator worked. But the critter was still alive, and had gotten two of my electrical cords stuck with it. I woke Husband, went back to hiding on the terrace. I was heroic enough to dispose of the whole thing, after it was bagged.

Yes, I took a pic of the mouse actually stuck to the trap, but I just can’t bear looking at it again.

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